


Acolyte

by QueerCannibal



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: A rewrite of the finale, Biting, Blood, Bondage, Bottom Hannibal, Bottom Hannibal Lecter, Dry Sex, Dubious Consent, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mention of Fredrick Chilton, Top Dolarhyde, Top Francis Dolarhyde, Violence, Will has a gun, attempted porn without plot--but there is plot, brief moment of cannibalism, but not really, sex with no prep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-26 06:05:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13851648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueerCannibal/pseuds/QueerCannibal
Summary: The Dragon manages to get his hands on Hannibal Lecter while he's being transferred, and decides to show the man the glory of his becoming.---Unbeta'd because I am a literal trash mammal.---Inspired by multiple roleplays/roleplay partners.





	Acolyte

Acolyte

 

Authors Note: I’ve had this idea in my head for over a month now, and finally got to practice it out with a role-play friend online—though admittedly not with a Francis roleplayer—and it is heavily inspired by how well that scene played out; I wasn’t sure I’d be able to write something like this, but apparently I can, and I’m honestly thankful for the chance to stretch my writing fingers.

 

The gun shot was the only warning either man had before the truck jerked sharply to the side and then crashed into the ditch at the side of the road; Will had been knocked to the floor of the truck, and Hannibal slammed against the bars of his cage—both dazed and rendered nearly unconscious.

Hannibal felt blood drip across his brow, and blinked dazedly against the light that spilled into the vehicle when the doors were opened. All he could make out was a tall dark figure—a figure that seemed to eclipse the light entirely as he stepped into the truck—Hannibal’s heart beat rapidly against his ribs as his head throbbed and his vision swam. He was locked up in a cage, fully restrained, and Will was semi unconscious on the floor of the vehicle, there was no chance of escape or attack; Hannibal had known that the Dragon would come, knew Will had made a deal with him—another betrayal that stung like a knife in the back, but Hannibal had also been proud of the man—but as the dark figure undid the lock of the cage, Hannibal’s vision tunneled and blacked out.

\---

                When Hannibal came to it was a slow drag of consciousness across the throbbing ache of his head; He became aware of his surroundings before he became aware of himself—he could hear the light _click click click_ of a movie projector, the hissing of the reel tape, the smell of dust, and sweat, and arousal.

When he became of aware of himself, the first thing he realized was that his arms were bound tightly behind his back, from bicep to wrist—he also noted that he was naked, but the straight jacket and face mask were gone.

                “Move slowly, you’ve been out for awhile.” A deep low voice said gently from somewhere behind Hannibal; Hannibal rolled from his back to his side slightly, to relieve the weight from his bound arms—the tension in the muscles left a dull ache along his shoulders and back. “Do you need water? Or a blanket?”

Hannibal pressed his aching head against the hardwood floor, and pushed himself all the way over, till he could get his knees under himself; with more effort than he liked to admit it took, he pulled himself up to sit on his calves, finally taking in his surroundings.

                He was in a darkened room—an attic he assumed from the wood beams of the ceiling—with a blown up photograph of Blake’s The Red Dragon, and a large leather bound tomb beneath it on one side of the room, and the projector and chair where the Dragon sat on the other.

                “Such a gracious host,” he said with a small smile, his head still throbbing, “but no, thank you, I’m fine.”

                “Are you in pain? That cage didn’t offer you must protection.”

                “Sore, but it’s manageable. You did an excellent job with my arms,” Hannibal strained at the rope, the tendons standing out on his neck as he tried for slack, but relaxed when none could be found, “very good.”

                “I needed you restrained, but I didn’t want you to hurt yourself by struggling.”

                “I’m mildly surprised that I didn’t wake up glued to a wheelchair like Chilton. Was that too messy?”

                “He was a gnat that needed to be swatted down, you’re _something else_ altogether.” The Dragon sighed, a hint of wonder in his deep voice. Hannibal smiled.

                “Oh. I see.” Hannibal observed the man, finally being able to look at him. “I’m honored.” He tilted his chin upwards slightly. “Tell me, did you kill Will?”

                “No.” Was the simple reply, and Hannibal felt his chest flutter slightly—Will was still alive.

 

                The Dragon was large—even sitting as he was Hannibal could tell that—muscular and long, the silk robe doing little to hide his size; Hannibal could tell from the length of his limbs and the slenderness of his waist that this man, this _Dragon_ , had been born a small man, but built himself up into the formidable and handsome creature that now sat across from him.

The top half of his head was covered in a dark stocking mask—only the bottom of his nose and jaw left exposed. The scar on his mouth answered several curious questions Hannibal had since their first phone conversation—he’d been born with a cleft lip. The scar spoke of surgeries done poorly, but Hannibal thought the man was beautiful.

                “So, are you going to kill me?” Hannibal asked, knowing the Dragon’s MO, though this scenario was slightly different; usually the victims of the Dragon were families, and his victim of choice was usually female.

                “I’m going to show you the wonder of the Dragon,” the man—Francis—peeked through the Dragon slightly, sliding to the edge of the chair, lips parted on slightly battered breath, “what he chooses to do with you is up to him.”

                “Am I to be a sacrificial lamb at the altar of the Great Red Dragon, Francis? To marvel at his awe and majesty?” There was nothing but curiosity in Hannibal tone—not a hint of mockery or teasing. Francis slid from the chair and stepped closer, the robe trailing behind him slightly, exposing the lovely strong but delicate bones of his ankles.

                “He’ll decide what sort of sacrifice you are, Doctor Lecter.” Francis stepped in front of Hannibal, studying the man through the dark of his mask. “Whatever he chooses, it’ll be an honor—a masterpiece—I’m going to record it, it won’t be quite the same later, but I’ll enjoy watching it over, and over, and over again.” He said as he moved smoothly away from Hannibal, to fiddle with the camera. Hannibal flexed his arms again out of reflex, but the rope merely rubbed his skin raw—there was no slack to give.

                When the man moved back to him, there was no doubt that it was the Dragon, and Hannibal craned his neck to look up at him as he shed the silk robe, letting it pool at his feet, leaving him nude; the Dragon was impressive, large and muscular, imposing even; Hannibal was no small man, but he was considerably shorter, and far leaner than the Dragon—he’d never be able to take him in a one on one fight without some dirty tricks; especially after spending three years inactive—Hannibal knew he was weakened, softer, depleted, but he also knew that Dragon admired him, and that his acts of murder were attempts at reaching divinity, sexual as they were; Hannibal could _work_ with that.

 

                The Dragon pushed Hannibal down onto the floor with his foot against his chest, making sure he was laid back before he lowered himself over him; this one was different from the other ones he’d taken—this one was not merely human, but a beast all its own—he was special; but not only that, he was alive—the Dragon had never taken a live offering before, but the desire curled and coiled at the base of his cock—would it feel different with a live offering?

He lowered himself over the smaller man, pressing a curious kiss over the man’s neck, collar bone, and then moving to his shoulder; he was searching for a good place to sink his teeth—the throat would be perfect, but not ideal, he didn’t want to kill the man yet.

Shifting down lower, he pressed his mouth to the flesh of the man’s upper arm, and decided it was a good place—meaty enough to really get a good bite, but not near enough to anything important that could cause life threatening damage; he wrapped his mouth around the man’s arm, tongue tasting the salt of his skin briefly before he applied steady pressure—he was going to savor this.

                Hannibal hissed and bore his teeth as the other man bit him, his muscles tensing on instinct but relaxing when Hannibal knew the damage would only be worse if he were tense. He closed his eyes and let out a pained sound as the Dragon’s jagged teeth broke the surface of his skin and sank deeper; as the blood began to seep around the man’s mouth, the pained sound turned into a yelp—the teeth sinking into the muscle slightly—Hannibal arching his neck and pressing the back of his skull hard against the wooden floor to distract from the pain in his arm; his chest rose and fell rapidly, breath hitching at the pain—but arousal stirred in his gut, egged on by the Dragon’s own.

                As the Dragon’s teeth met, biting through the flesh, he pulled away with force, ripping any bit of flesh that hadn’t been severed and sat up, resting his weight on the smaller man’s thighs. He looked down at the smaller man—fire was billowing in his gut and at the base of his cock as he chewed the chunk of raw flesh; he’d tasted human flesh, but he’d never consumed it—Hannibal tasted sweet, obviously well fed on his own prey of human meat. Drops of blood slid down his chin and dotted the other man’s heaving chest as he swallowed his mouthful.

                Hannibal panted raggedly, trembling beneath the larger man as the mixture of adrenaline, arousal, and shock pumped through his body; the injury was neither life threateningly immediate, nor minor.

Blood seeped onto the wood, and a sweat broke out across Hannibal’s skin, his pupils blown wide. He’d managed to lift his head and look up at the Dragon, watching as he chewed—unable to read his thoughts due to his eyes being covered—and groaned when he saw the Dragon swallow, his head thumping back hard against the wooden floor—the sound a mix of arousal and pain.

                “To see the glory of the Dragon, to live long enough to feel His bite,” Hannibal ground his teeth as he managed to look back up at the other man, “is a privilege.” He knew that the Dragon killed his victims before arranging them, biting the female sacrifice, and taking her usually. He didn’t doubt that the Dragon would mount him—though he hoped he could stay alive through it; he knew Will would be hunting for them—pissed at the Dragon’s betrayal, and enraged if he couldn’t witness or cause Hannibal’s death himself. Hannibal knew if he could stay alive long enough he’d see Will again, if even only for a moment.

                “And have you seen enough? Have you witnessed the might, enough to be in awe? Would you beg, or plead for me to end your suffering?” The Dragon asked, voice low and ragged, licking the blood from his lips; there was a taunt in his tone, and Hannibal knew that Chilton must have begged, could imagine the man would have—Chilton was not a strong man.

The Dragon’s cock throbbed heavily between his thighs, thick drops of milky pre-cum bubbling at the head and dripping across Hannibal’s thigh, and the shaft of his own half hard member.

                Hannibal let his head fall back and shook his head quickly; no, he hadn’t seen enough, hadn’t witnessed enough, hadn’t experienced the awe inspiring ravaging that was the Dragon—he knew begging would get him nowhere, pleading for his life, pleading to be spared pain, would do nothing but bring more; but pleading to have more, experience more, see more? It might give the Dragon a reason to keep him alive. Not only did he have a living sacrifice now, but he also had an audience.

                The Dragon purred lowly, a hand trailing across Hannibal’s heaving trembling chest, feeling the warmth of his skin, feeling the wild beating of his heart.

                “You’ll die, if you go into shock.” He said lowly. “You’re only mortal, if I keep _biting_ you, _consuming_ you, your life might end.” He tilted his head and looked thoughtfully at the other man. “Perhaps I can play with you without killing you.” He leaned back down and licked the flat of his tongue against Hannibal’s torn flesh, lapping up the blood.

                Hannibal groaned low as his wound was lapped at, the desire to curl away strong, but he resisted and instead prostrated himself on his back beneath the larger man.

                “Please,” he begged, looking at the Dragon, voice ragged, “more, show me more,” there was no shame in his begging, and he shook his head slightly, “I’ve survived worse, please _; I long to see your greatness._ ”

                The Dragon drew back, shifting to grab the other man’s legs, spreading them over his own thighs. He kissed along the smaller man’s knee and inner thigh, finding another spot that pleased him and sank his teeth roughly into the other man’s flesh—as he did, his free hand slid to palm against the other man’s sex, palming him, and wrapping his fingers around him to encourage him to hardness.

                Hannibal keened loudly, his leg jerking in the man’s tight grip slightly, the muscles along his thighs and stomach constricting as he shifted against the hard wood; the keening sound broke into a shaky gasped sob as the dragon’s jagged teeth sank down to the muscle—but despite the obvious pain, his lengthening and hardening cock dripped a small bead of clear precum against the Dragon’s fingers.

                Despite the flavor and taste of the blood against his tongue, the Dragon was mindful with his bite to the man’s thigh—he didn’t rip, or pull, but released the man’s flesh, leaving behind a bloody jagged ring against pale skin. He then bent over the man and found another spot—the meaty part above his hipbone, sinking his teeth in roughly, but not ripping or tearing; the taste of blood filled the Dragon’s senses, addled his mind, and fueled his arousal—he wanted to hear the man cry, scream, and beg. He wanted to feed off his pain.

                Hannibal jerked and twitched against the hardwood, breathing so harshly and quickly that he was nearly hyperventilating; sweat dripped along the plains of his skin, flushing and draining in waves as his blood pressure rose and he bled more and more.

                “I want to hear you scream.” The Dragon purred—almost affectionately—against Hannibal’s sweat slicked skin, as he found another spot and sank his teeth in; he was still jerking the other man’s cock—perhaps faster than necessary but he didn’t want the pain to dampen or flag his arousal—he wanted him hard and leaking.

Lifting his head and licking at the freshest wound, the Dragon let hot ragged breath trail along the smaller man’s skin. “I’m going to fuck you now,” He purred, a statement and not a warming, as he shifted back, slicking his own cock with a mixture of Hannibal blood and both of their precum; gripping Hannibal’s hips harshly he pulled the man’s hips firmly up—thumb digging into the bite wound above the bone—and positioned the man so he could press the head of his cock against the puckered ring of the man’s entrance. “You sound so beautiful when you scream.” He sighed, forcing his way into the other man in one strong brutal thrust.

                Hannibal managed a few stressed gulps of air as the man repositioned them, before his body locked up at the forced entry and he bit back another loud scream that still managed to escape from him in a strangled stuttering sound. He gasped and whined as the Dragon pushed in, the burn enhanced by the pain of his bleeding wounds.

                “Beautiful.” The Dragon groaned, leaning over the other man and pressing his thighs nearly to his chest, so he could lick and nip at the man’s collar bone in a small show of affection and tenderness. He gave the smaller man a moment to adjust as he straightened up, wrapping his hand around the man’s cock again, palming him and rubbing his thumb against the sensitive spot beneath the head. The man whined at the touch, the fluttering pulse against the Dragon’s hand beating in time with his pulse—and likely the throbbing heat of the bite wounds.

He imagined it was a confusing sensory impulse, heady, and overwhelming, to have his cock throb in time with his pulse, while his wounds did the same, but for very different reasons. He pressed his tongue against his upper lip as he observed the man—he really was pretty, he couldn’t see why such a pretty creature had gone for someone as ugly as Will Graham.

                “Does it feel wonderful; the pain mixed with the pleasure… does it make your head swim, and the room rotate around you. I think I’ll give you more of it.” He growled as he jerked his hips back before slamming back in, his cock head slamming against the man’s prostate and making him yelp and scream against at the hard stimulation.

                Hannibal’s spine arched sharply from the floor, his bound arms acting as a balance as the Dragon fucked roughly into him; he didn’t even try to stop the sounds of agony and pleasure as they were roughly ripped from his lungs.

                The Dragon decided in that moment—he couldn’t kill a creature that sang as pretty as this—and ripped himself from the other man’s body before picking him up and carrying him from the attic room. He descended the stairs rapidly, and turned sharply into the bedroom, undoing the ropes at the man’s arms and depositing him on the bed.

Climbing quickly back over him, the Dragon mounted the smaller man again, dragging his hips upward to rut back into his tight body with a loud groan; he couldn’t kill this man, this sacrifice was paying tribute in sweat, blood, and tears.

He rutted and fucked into the smaller man with gusto, each thrust long and fierce, the hand on his hip the only thing keeping the man from sliding back across the bed; each thrust slammed against the other man’s prostate and drew the most lovely sounds from him.

“I’m going to claim you.”

Hannibal nodded quickly against the mattress, sobbing around a string of rapid fire babbling in Lithuanian that the Dragon couldn’t understand—but there was no mistaking the sound of a worshipful litany of praise. A particularly hard thrust forced another scream from Hannibal, and his body tried to twist against the sheets, to get away—but there was no escaping the iron grip at his hip, or the hand squeezing and working over his cock just as fiercely.

As they continued to fuck on the bed, smearing blood and sweat against the sheets, the coppery sweet scent of blood and heady musk filled the room, and hung heavy on the air. The Dragon panted and growled as he thrust rapidly in and out of the tight warm beneath him, baring his jagged teeth as the drag of the other’s velvet tunnel squeezed and resisted the fat drag of his cock. He sped up his thrusts with a cruel twist of his hips.

“You’re such a lovely toy, such a good fuck, you sound so sweetly when he cry.” He panted as he listened to the choked babbling and loud sobbing of the smaller man; this was divinity—nothing until this moment had ever come close—he was right not to kill this man.

                Hannibal pressed a hand across his eyes while the other clawed at the mattress—he’d slipped into hysterics; God it hurt, burned, dragged him across coals he couldn’t escape, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t love it—God yes he loved it, loved the pain of it, loved the wonder and power of the creature the broken boy that was Francis Dolarhyde had become.

He forced out more choked words the other man couldn’t understand before his entire body tensed, and his back snapped into a sharp arch off the mattress—he twisted his head to the side and screamed against the mattress as his orgasm was torn from him savagely; he sobbed through the waves of it, pulsing and rushing through the center of his pelvic bone as his balls drew of tight and forced his seed from his thrumming cock—it had been three long years since he’d had sex, since he’d felt release, it felt like dying.

When the strongest peak of his release began to taper off, his babbling started again as the Dragon continued to fuck into him.

                The Dragon growled and gasped loudly at the sobbing, and screaming, grunting as the other’s body tightened around his cock, squeezing so tight it was almost painful to keep fucking into him—but he only thrust harder, fucking against the pressure as the other man splattered himself with his release. Releasing the man’s throbbing, twitching cock, he gripped both the man’s narrow hips and readjusted him slightly before fucking into him harder and faster, chasing after his own pleasure and his own release. When he felt it build at the base of his cock, his own balls tightening, he released the man’s thighs and loomed over him, fucking him roughly into the mattress; twenty thrusts in total into the other man’s velvet heat, before his own orgasm washed over him. He strained and roared as his cock stiffened more inside the hot pocket of the other man’s body, and spilled seven strong thick ropes of cum into his bowels.

Even after his orgasm faded he thrust roughly into the other man a few more times, before slowing and giving only a few lazy slides in and out of him before pulling out with a rude wet squelching pop. He folded the other man’s thighs back towards his chest, watching as the abused pink hole gaped and twitched, fluttering as his seed leaked out of him.

Releasing the man’s thighs, the Dragon watched as he man struggled against the sheets, rolling and trying to move away from him. He got a little higher on the bed, but the Dragon climbed over him, caging him down with his knees and a hand at the base of his neck.

                “You’ve seen the glory now, the majesty, haven’t you?” He growled against the other man’s ear, breathing heavily against the short cut of his hair. He dragged his teeth along the man’s shoulder, sinking his teeth into the flesh—though not nearly as viciously as before. Hannibal tensed, and whined beneath him, too exhausted to struggle or protest.

                “I haven’t seen anything, why don’t you show me.” There was a metallic click and The Dragon lifted off of Hannibal slightly, twisting around to find Will—bruised and a little bloody—standing in the doorway of the bedroom, gun cocked.

Hannibal shifted beneath the weight of the larger man and turned his head to look back as best he could.

                “Will.” The name rolled from Hannibal’s tongue fondly. He didn’t care of Will killed him, or even if the Dragon did, he’d got to see him again.

The Dragon moved off of Hannibal—permitting the man to roll back onto his back with a hiss—and perched at the edge of the bed growling at the man who stood in the doorway. Hannibal observed the two men from his spot on the bed, his chest tightening at the unshakable murderous gleam in the smaller man’s storm blue eyes; he wondered who would win, and was eager to learn his fate once the blood was shed.

           


End file.
